


I'm Not the Man They Think I Am at Home

by interstellarstorms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Case Fic, Gen, Hunt Gone Wrong, Hurt Sam Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester Has PTSD, Sam Winchester Has an Eating Disorder, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Trans Male Character, Trans Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22865914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstellarstorms/pseuds/interstellarstorms
Summary: And that was it. That was how it started. A man trapped so far in his memories that he could barely see in front of him. Buried so far into nightmares that he couldn’t breathe. So when those memories and nightmares meet (not for the first time), it becomes increasingly important to remember where it all started.After all, it was a flimsy case. Either a milk run, or maybe not even their kind of problem. Who could have guessed how it would turn out?
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	I'm Not the Man They Think I Am at Home

**Author's Note:**

> I know I haven't really written in a long time but I'm really feeling good about this one. I'll try to update at least once a month!  
> Beta'd by the wonderful unionofdreamers

Somehow, while Sam was gone on his morning run, Dean had beaten him to the motel shower and used up all the hot water. But for some reason, it never crossed his mind that the water would be this cold. 

When Sam stood in front of the mirror, his socks got soaked from all the mess Dean had made. He sighed, not much for arguing before 9 am, before he’s even had his coffee, and peeled off his sweaty clothing. He turned the shower to a setting that should have been fairly lukewarm—he wasn’t about to try to shower in scalding water after this morning’s miles—but stepping in now, it’s enough to take the breath right out of him. 

Sam hates the feeling of a cold shower after a run. It’s sad, he thinks, because he can remember a time when things were different. He used to love that feeling the freezing water gave him, of awakening, of reward after laborious efforts. But things are different now. 

Every drop is Lucifer dousing him and drowning him in freezing oceans of blood in Hell—and more recently, it’s also Toni Bevell punishing him with another frigid downpour. In both cases, he’d be left sniffling from the cold and chilled down to his bones. And that’s why he’s caught somewhere in between hyperventilating and forgetting to breathe and there’s a knot in his throat. (But even though this is the safest place to let that go, Winchester’s don’t just cry like that. Even if they really feel like it.)

There’s a lot of things, Sam figures, like that. Being cold is the hardest to get around, though. It’s probably the most innocuous. Like when the Impala’s heater wasn’t working in Michigan that one time with the cursed wedding dress, when Sam had started to feel as if he was no longer in his body anymore. It had felt almost as if he had a migraine and he had struggled to even move at one point. Dean had noticed but been pretty much helpless, not having any clue how to get his brother out of that state. In the end, the thing to finally bring him back was when he had worn himself out so severely from crying and shaking that the only thing he could focus on was his breathing, and he fell asleep shortly afterwards.

Despite his shivers originating from more than one source, Sam is able to talk himself through staying in the shower. Mostly because he knows that he sweats profusely on his runs and not only would it embarrass him to go about his day smelling like that, but Dean, who saw him go into the bathroom to shower and who heard the shower running, would notice something and be suspicious if Sam were to come out without wet hair and smelling like sage shampoo. And God—er, whatever, Sam’s got a complicated relationship with God at the moment—knows that would put them both in an uncomfortable position.

He steps out of the shower after a quick but thorough washing and rinsing off his hair and body. He tries not to look too hard there. Sometimes it’s just sort of upsetting to see all the places he’s been scarred. He knows that most hunters—Dean, and his father back in the day, included—look at these kinds of things as marks of their valor. All he can see is jagged wounds—often caused by the smallest mistakes—that never healed properly, and never got proper attention. And—again, he almost says God—is witness to all the girls (and a fair few guys as well) who’ve reacted poorly to Sam’s body in bed. And the saddest part is that, despite all the hunts he went on as a kid, Sam can remember a time when his body garnered the opposite reaction from others in bed. But half the reason Sam stopped even trying long ago even with one night stands is that it kills the mood pretty damn quickly to see your partner wince when they catch sight of your bare chest. And that’s not to mention his _other_ kinds of body image issues and dysphoria. So he hurries as he dries himself with a threadbare motel towel and tugs on a flannel and jeans.

Once he’s dressed, Sam opens the cabinet below the sink and removes from it the cheap, black hairdryer. He knows that Dean is probably scoffing at him from the other side of the door, thinking he’s just being prissy about his hair, but Sam knows better. Lucifer and that British bitch both let his cold, wet hair air dry as a part of their plans to break him. He’s gonna put in every effort so that he never feels that sensation again. Not that having dripping locks is going to hurt him on a day he spends in the Impala with his brother, but it reminds him too much of that helplessness.

A knock at the door. “Hurry up in there, Samantha. I need in.”

“Shut up, Dean.”

“You shut up. I need to pee!”

Sam rolls his eyes, even though there’s no way that Dean could see from behind the closed door. Plenty of times Dean wouldn’t let Sam in even though Sam had needed it pretty badly—not to mention never pulling over when Sam asked—and honestly, even with much shorter hair and less height to wash, Dean took longer showers. Not to mention he was clearly just in there, using up the hot water and making a mess. And what’s more, Sam can’t remember the last time he masturbated in the shower, but he’s sure that’s something Dean does, even on the days he can’t hear him through the thin motel walls. But regardless of reason, he figures locking your brother out was just something you do. He takes a little longer to dry his hair than he needs to. Just to fuck with his brother.

When Sam does open the door, he is immediately pushed out of the way, much to his annoyance. _Honestly, Dean is probably just being a drama queen_ , Sam thinks. But really, Sam wouldn’t have minded hurrying out of there. He doesn’t like being alone, not anymore.

“Close the goddamn door, Dean!” Sam yells, realizing that his brother has no intention of doing so. Sam truthfully has the worst secondhand embarrassment, and Dean knows it. It’s been a source of many pranks throughout the years.

Sam retreats to his bed. The queen size mattress is topped with an assortment of throw pillows in clashing colors but it’s a sight better than plenty of the beds he’s slept in. For some reason, Sam is reminded of the contrast between this and the stark hospital bed in the psych ward he was admitted to when he couldn’t get Lucifer out of his head. Just thinking of that sterile environment, Sam can hear Lucifer’s voice, singing. _“There’s a lady who’s sure / All that glitters is gold / And she’s buying the stairway to heaven.”_ A song so reminiscent of Dean, but in such twisted tones. He tries to physically shake that memory off. 

“Dude. What are you doing?”

He stops. Looks up. His older brother out of the bathroom now,is giving him a look that says, no, begs that Sam aggressively shaking his head isn’t something he should be worried about. Sam begins to respond, that he had a piece of damp hair stuck to his face and was trying to get it off, when Dean interrupts. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Just keep the spasming to a minimum.”

A little red in the face, Sam turns away. He’s gotten really good at coming up with bland but reasonable excuses in his head, but Dean rarely pays enough attention to hear them. Stuff like, “there was hair in my face” or “I thought I saw a bug” whenever Sam finds himself having to physically fight to get to reality. Sam doesn’t know whether Dean sees though his bullshit or just doesn’t care, but either way, he never gets a word in.

Sam knows Dean has been through a lot ( _probably at least as much as me_ , Sam thinks, _he never does talk about his Hell experience, and he’s been possessed, too, and it’s really self-centered of me to think that I could possibly have it worse_ ) but no matter what he’s been through, he sure does seem to handle it better than Sam thinks he’s handling it. In fact, he’s very much the same Dean he’s always known, just matured. And Sam has seen the guy when he’s putting on a show—maybe to most, Dean does a good job, but Sam can see straight through it. Dean might not be _okay_ precisely, but he’s sure functioning as normal as he could be given what he’s been through. The same can’t be said for Sam.

Sure, he looks like he’s got it down. But really, Sam’s falling to pieces.

He’s still running at least twice a week but it’s hard to do more when he spends so much time on the road, and even more of the time injured (usually from a hunt but sometimes just because he pushes himself too hard, and quite frankly, his body isn’t twenty anymore). And it’s harder when he isn’t doing so hot and he struggles to be alone in his mind for that long. He’s still keeping his room in the bunker and any other space he occupies pristine, but he supposes it’s just a coping mechanism, and anyway, all Dean’s teasing him about being OCD have got him thinking that maybe he isn’t so far off. And deep down he knows he strayed from the path of a “healthy lifestyle” when he started “forgetting” meals altogether. And yeah, that’s also probably why he’s feeling so out of shape on hunts and runs, too.

“So this case. What have you got on it?”

Dean was looking at his brother with slight impatience. Sam reached up and grasped the bridge of his nose, pulled abruptly from his thoughts. God, he was tired. He’d hardly slept again last night. One would think that after all these years, he should be used to this crap, be able to sleep it off rather than wake fitfully from nightmares. But the one thing Sam had gotten the hang of after all these years was faking it, and he wasn’t going to let his utter fatigue show any more than his other turmoil.

“Little girl, eight years old, in Madison, Wisconsin. Dead from unknown causes, autopsy revealing nothing wrong except for the bottom of her feet being filthy with dirt and blood despite finding her in her home, but the sister, only six, says she saw a dark shadow enter the older sister’s bedroom before the family heard a scream. That’s when they found her.” That’s truly all he knows about the case he found online. After some digging, he was able to come up with the possible identity of the girl (since it was not mentioned in the article) as Grace Schmidt, from a charity started by her aunt raising money for the family.

“That really all we got to go on, Mr. Research?” Dean looks skeptical. Sam shoots him a look.

“I told you, this case is a long shot. But I figured we’re already pretty close to the area and we better check it out before we head all the way back out to Kansas.” Really, the reason Sam had chosen this case was because the alternative would be heading back to Lebanon and it really hasn’t felt the same lately with just the two of them there. Not that it ever felt like home, but it’s hard for him to be by himself there. It’s just so big, and he’s not a small guy, but he doesn’t have to be to feel overwhelmed in a great big bunker with nobody in it but him and Dean, and Dean leaves most nights for at least a few hours. Plus, he’s in a whole different hallway, and as ashamed as he’d be to admit it, he feels safer with his big brother around, not because Dean’s a superior hunter of anything since they’re pretty well matched, but because at night, he isn’t a six-foot-four guy in his mid-thirties anymore. He’s a child, lost in nightmares and plagued by regret.

“Let’s go, then. To Wisconsin!”

~

_And that was it. That was how it started. A man trapped so far in his memories that he could barely see in front of him. Buried so far into nightmares that he couldn’t breathe. So when those memories and nightmares meet (not for the first time), it becomes increasingly important to remember where it all started._

_After all, it was a flimsy case. Either a milk run, or maybe not even their kind of problem. Who could have guessed how it would turn out?_


End file.
